


A Christmas Horror Story

by sorcererofsupremepizza



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Merry Christmas, One Shot, One-Shot, Sort Of, Thrill of the Chase, christmas ficlet, one a case, sherlock and john - Freeform, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcererofsupremepizza/pseuds/sorcererofsupremepizza
Summary: Sherlock and John chase after a murderer dressed like Father Christmas. What happens after? Hilarity. And horrifying embarrassment.





	A Christmas Horror Story

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to you all! Enjoy. :)   
> I own nothing, except for this hilarious idea.

“Come on, John! He’s getting away!” Sherlock bellowed, his coat flapping in the wind. John’s feet pounded against the sidewalk, his own coat bundled up tightly. It was fucking freezing outside today, snow gently cascading from the clouds above, blanketing the city in a sheet of white powder.

Any other time, he would have found it beautiful. Right now, he just wanted to be back in Baker Street, curled up in front of the fire, maybe with Sherlock. He had his doubt about that latter point though, because right now he just wanted to scold him for forgetting every piece of winter clothing except his coat.

 _The fool_ , John thought, _he turns into a child anytime a potential murder case comes up. Especially one this festive._

Nevertheless, John hurried to catch up to his boyfriend, who had just rounded a corner and was now chasing their culprit, who happened to be dressed like Father Christmas—that was the third time this week, for Christ’s sake—right down to the Thames.

Only, they didn’t stop there.

Much to John’s horror, the murderous Santa plunged right into the ice-cold water of the river. Even worse: Sherlock dove in right after him, both splashing up a storm and no doubt bringing an onset of hypothermia for one. Or both, John thought rather anxiously.

“Sherlock!” He shouted, but he daren’t go into the water himself. That was fucking stupid. Sherlock _was fucking stupid_.

\--

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to apprehend the perpetrator, and although he was as jittery as a jackhammer, he still managed to swim back to shore, murderer in tow, quite gracefully. As soon as the younger Holmes and his prize were within reach of John, the army doctor reached out for the murderer, freeing his boyfriend of his rather cumbersome load and shoving him in the direction of an awaiting Detective Inspector.

“Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking?” John berated immediately, grabbing his hand and dragging him away from the river. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John nearly hauled him off his feet. His normally majestic Belstaff was limp and soaked, trailing water everywhere. His normally luscious, bouncy curls were pasted flat against his alabaster flesh, which to John was starting to look a pallid blue color, and that worried him.

“I caught a murderer, John.” Sherlock said, his teeth chattering. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t change the subject. This was one of the most foolish things you’ve ever done. It’s fucking freezing out here, Sherlock!”

“”M f-f-f-ine.” The detective said, his words punctuated by the still-chattering teeth. Truth be told, Sherlock was rather regretting how painfully cold he was in that moment.

“Why don’t I believe you?” John said, ushering him still forward. “Oh, that’s right, because you jumped in the goddamned Thames even though it’s bloody freezing out here!”

 

Sherlock said nothing, electing to let John have his tirade. He now realized, through the cold stupor in which he currently found himself, that John was taking him to the nearest police car. It was running, and no doubt was heated up. Smart, John, Sherlock thought. He did need to get warmed up, but he wasn’t going to say his actions were stupid. He’d just caught another murderer.

“Get in the bloody car,” John demanded. However angry he was, he still pulled the back door open for Sherlock, who clambered inside. The interior of the car was a nice and toasty, very comfortable temperature. John got in beside him, staring at him. Sherlock met his gaze, expecting the worst.

Instead, a Christmas miracle: “Right, clothes off.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, taken aback by the abrupt demand. “John, we’re at a crime scene.”

“No shit, Sherlock! And you are soaking wet on Christmas Eve. You need to get out of the wet clothes and get warmed up as soon as possible.”

“And here I thought you were trying to be a suave romantic, John.” Sherlock said, a hint of a smirk touching his lips.

John rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t withhold a smile. “Shut up and take your clothes off, you git.”

Sherlock obeyed, tossing his soaking coat over the driver’s seat of the police car. Next, he unbuttoned his drenched hunter green shirt—it was Christmas Eve, after all—and similarly draped it over the seat in front of him. Finally, he slipped out of his trousers, pants, and soaked shoes, becoming one very naked detective in the back of one of New Scotland Yard’s police cars.

John, although worried about his boyfriend, still couldn’t resist admiring the newly unwrapped scene before him. Christmas really had come early. He shook those thoughts away.

“Right, let’s get you warmed up, love.” John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“John, you’re ridiculous.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John said, and to reinforce his order, he kissed his boyfriend. Sherlock soon became warm, indeed. John wasn’t really focusing on the kiss, but rather transferring his own body heat to his boyfriend. He rubbed his hands all over his body, holding him close. So what if they both enjoyed the contact more than what should have been appropriate in a public setting?

Before they knew it, the driver’s door to the car opened. John glanced up, horrified, as Greg Lestrade clambered into the car. He had been on the phone, but that stopped when he saw what was going on in his backseat. And when he saw how wet the driver’s seat of his car had become from the dripping Belstaff.

“Oi, what the fuck guys!” Lestrade said, accidentally yelling the remark into the receiver of his mobile. Sherlock, as bare as he had been upon coming into the world, turned a fierce red, his face screwed up in horror. His eyes blew wider than Lestrade’s at the realization of being discovered, and the detective dragged John over the top of himself to allow some cover. In his alarm, he had dragged him right over his lap, John’s face ending up in his crotch. John protested, but Sherlock kept him held there.

John was equally as horrified at this entire series of unfortunate events, and berated himself for not cutting the kiss short and giving Sherlock at least one of his layers of clothing. This was one of the worst things that had ever happened to the pair of them.

Sherlock and Lestrade just stared at each other. Finally, Lestrade spoke into the phone again: “Yeah, Myc, I’ll call you back. I gotta go. Of course love, I’ll grab a bottle. But seriously, I have to go. Love you too. Bye Myc.” Greg cut the call, shoving Sherlock’s wet clothes to the passenger seat. Lestrade decided he would just suffer through the wet arse from his seat and just clambered in, the seat squelching beneath him.

“So, how have you been, Greg?” John asked, his words muffled from how he was still lying in Sherlock’s lap. However, he began chatting along as if this wasn’t the most ridiculous thing that had ever happened.

Sherlock himself was staring out the window, wishing he could escape this hell.

Greg just shook his head, avoiding looking into his rear-view mirror at all costs. “You guys want a ride home?” Anything to avoid the awkward situation, he thought. “I know you normally take a cab, but I don’t think they would take you like that.”

John muttered an affirmative and sat up, but Sherlock was still too petrified to speak. Until, of course, Lestrade took them back to Baker Street. Greg accidentally met his gaze in the mirror, and the younger Holmes finally said something.

“Oh relax, Lestrade. You’ve seen a naked Holmes before. The next time you’re in the middle of plowing my brother, make sure when he answers the call it isn’t myself as intermediary for the Prime Minister, who happened to be in the same room.” Sherlock snapped, reaching out to open the door. Only there was just one problem: they were in the back of a police car, and those doors could only be opened from the outside.

John just let out a deep sigh, relenting to his fate. Sherlock none too gently slammed his head into the seat in front of him. Lestrade put a hand to his face, slowly dragging it down his features. Then, biting back a laugh, he got out of the driver’s seat and tugged open the door. He took special care to avoid looking at Sherlock, who lithely stepped out of the backseat into the snow. He said nothing to the DI, just waltzing past him, barefooted and bare-arsed, toward the door to their flat. John slid out of the car and glanced at Greg.

“Um, Merry Christmas. See you and Myc at half 8 for the party.” John said, his own cheeks burning as he dashed toward the door of 221B.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, folks! Have a great holiday!


End file.
